may have killed all of them off."

They trudged on again in silence. Everywhere the rocky rim of the
island frowned up at them, offering no suggestion of a path down to the
foot, or of a rocky shelf below where a group of hunters might build a
village.

"There's a place somewhere," said Lucile stoutly, as she lowered her
burden to the snow and paused for a brief rest. "There's a path down
and we must find it, if it's nothing more than to find a safe spot by
the sea where we can fish for smelt, tomcod and flounders."

Dusk was falling when, at length, with a little cry of joy, Lucile
sprang forward, then began a cautious descent over a winding and
apparently well-worn trail which even the snow did not completely
conceal.

With hearts beating wildly, in utter silence they made their way down,
down the winding way--to what? That, they could not tell.

Finally Lucile paused. She caught her breath quickly and clutched at
her throat.

At length, in a calmer moment, she pointed down and to the right of the
trail.

"See that square of white?"

Marian strained her eyes to peer through the gathering darkness.

"Yes," she said at last, "I see it."

"That," said Lucile in a tone that was tense with emotion, "is the roof
of a house--a white man's house!"

"Wha--what makes you think so?" gasped Marian.

"There's nothing as square as that in nature's panorama. And a native
does not build a house like that."

"And if it is?"

"If it is, we must trust ourselves to their care, though I'd almost
rather they were natives." She closed her eyes and saw again the
rough, unkempt white men, beach combers, who lived by trading, hunting
and whaling with the natives. They were a hard, bad lot, and she knew
it.

"Well," she sighed, "come on. Let's go down."

Down they went, each turn of the path bringing them closer to the
mysterious house.

"There's no light," said Lucile at last.

"There are no tracks in the snow," added Marian, a moment later.

"It's boarded up," said Lucile, as they came closer. It would have
been hard to judge whether there was more of relief or of
disappointment in the tone in which she said this.

They stood there staring at the house. It was a nice house, a bungalow
such as one might desire for a summer home in the mountains or at the
seashore.

"Who do you suppose brought all that fine lumber up here and built that
house?" said Lucile.

"I wonder who," echoed Marian.

They took a